Love In The Family
by Maelstrom
Summary: Sometimes love is all you need to help you through the day.


This piece is dedicated to Mirage, who was willing to give me advice and encouragement when I was feeling particularly bad at one time. Thanks, gal, you're the best. :) 

Love In The Family 

by Maelstrom 

4:30pm -- oh fish! Got to pick Brian up from football practice. I chuck the pan into the oven with the reassurance that it'll be at least a couple of hours before it's done. . . well, at least I hope so. Never can trust these modern recipes nowadays. As I grab my keys and coat, I fumble for the list in my pocket and quickly run my eyes through it. 

Well, at least it's not as bad as most days. First it's Brian, then I have to swing by Harley's to get 4 bags of baking soda for whatever science experiment Jed is up to now, and also to shop for more groceries for dinner. Not too bad a schedule. Then again, after that experience with Rodney and how we ended up prowling the streets past midnight thanks to a school project that he conveniently forgot (which coincidentally was due the next day), any sort of schedule is wonderful by far. Remind me next time not to search for mounted spiders when it's past midnight. You get all sorts of weird looks from people. 

Brian greets me with a brief "Hi Mom" before tossing his football into the backseat. He's covered from head to toe in mud, and he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, I think he enjoys it. Gives him a macho feeling. You know boys. 

"Whoa, cowboy," I say as he tries to get in. "Not so fast. You're a mess!" 

"Aw Mom," he protests in the same tone that he'd used to greet me. You know, the you're-just-a-mom,-not-'xactly-the-coolest-person-in-the-world tone of voice. It's a 13-year-old phase, I figure. I fumble with one arm around the backseat (how did so much junk get in there?) before I finally find an old newspaper. I lay it all over the passenger seat before I finally let him get in and sit on it. Hey, I'm not that fussy, really, it's just that muck is really hard to remove this time of the century. 

"So, how's practice?" I ask as I maneuver the car back on the road. 

He shrugs. "'S okay," he says non-commitally. "I got tackled." 

"You were? Did you get hurt? Are you okay? Do you need -" 

He rolls his eyes. "I'm fine, Mom. Relax, everybody gets tackled. It's football, remember?" 

I slap my head in exaggeration. "Ah yes, silly me. I forgot that. Football's the one where you beat the crap out of your opponent just for the fun of it, right? Or is that pro wrestling?" 

He grins like a burst of sunshine in a dark, stuffy room. "Hey, don't knock it, Mom. For a kid, Rod's sure got high hopes and dreams." 

"Yes, but must they always be so violent?" I turn a corner. "I mean, why couldn't he stick with wanting to become an astronaut or something? Really, a pro *wrestler*?" 

He chuckles and settles back in his seat, newspapers crinkling under him. "Think about it, Mom. You'll have one kid in pro football, another in pro wrestling, and then ol' Jed's gonna become a world-famous nuclear scientist. Thanksgiving reunions will be *very* colorful. 'Specially if you add to that a punk rock star daughter." 

"Don't *you* knock it, kiddo. Your sister is very serious about taking up music. She has a beautiful voice." 

He gives an exaggerated imitation of Judy in the shower, screeching a Mariah Carey tune, and I can't help but burst out laughing. I stop outside Harley's to get the baking soda and groceries, and Brian opts to stay in the car. Can't blame him -- even though we still joke around with each other, I'm technically his Mom, and being seen with the woman who gave birth to him is technically uncool. Sigh. . . 

I'm at the midst of paying at the cash register when I suddenly remember to buy some tampons for Judy. Poor darling's still very self-conscious of buying them herself, despite being a very plucky, stalwart sixteen-year-old. I'm still wary about tampons though, me being a staunch supporter of pads myself, but all of Judy's friends are using them, so naturally the darling wants to use them too. Who'd've figured peer pressure would extend to the type of sanitary items used? 

I manage to lug the stuff out to the car, and Brian's gracious enough to pop out for a brief moment to help me load them in. I attempt to ruffle his hair, but he quickly darts away with an "Aw Mom." I laugh. 

His sense of chivalry evidently remained, though, because he also helped me to take the grocery bags in when we reached the house. Usually he'd wait till I ask him before attempting to do so. I guess football practice must've been quite a success today if he's feeling so upbeat, although I still squirm just thinking of my baby getting tackled. Because he's such a gentleman today, I decide not to make him shake off the dried mud from his body when he enters the house. A kid deserves a break after all. 

I ask him to take the baking soda over to Jed, and also to check up on Rodney (who'd've known that an eight-year-old could create so much havoc?). I myself head upstairs to Judy with the tampons. Brian eyes the packet in my hand before quickly blushing and turning away. I'm still chuckling when I open Judy's door. 

And I freeze as I find her sobbing heavily on her bed. 

"Judy!" I rush towards her instantly, dropping the tampons on the floor. "Honey, what's wrong?" 

She gives a loud, heart-wrenching sob, and for a brief moment there I'm ready to kill whoever did this to her. Because I *know* this isn't a result of teenage hormones -- Judy's much too strong and outspoken to let little things like estrogen get her down. I wonder if she has a crush that she hasn't told me about, and if that crush didn't deserve it. 

I'm frantic with worry as I put my arms around her, feeling her body racked with sobs. I open my mouth to say something, anything. . . my poor baby. . . but she speaks before I do: "They called me names again, Mom." 

My heart stops immediately. Oh God, Judy. . . I squeeze her tighter. "I'm sorry, honey," I try to say, but she doesn't notice. 

"Said I'm a freak," she says, hurt and frustration pushing the sobs away. Her fists're rolled up so tightly I can almost see her veins throbbing. "That I don't belong, I'm *different.*" She weeps again. 

A sharp, painful ache thrusts itself deep within me. God, I hate this. Hate what it puts my babies through. God, why did You do this? My babies don't deserve the pain, it's not their fault, they couldn't help it. . . 

Sometimes it's so easy to forget the pain -- when you're an adult, you tend not to hear the insults. Neighbours sugar-coat their words when speaking in front of you, but whisper derogatory statements behind closed doors. Children, however, are much more blunt with their feelings. 

Being a mutant is so hard, so unfair. . . They shouldn't do this. Not to my Judy. She's such a wonderful, special child, a ray of sunshine breaking through a dark and stormy day. She always acts so bold and confident, it's so easy to forget that life isn't always as picture perfect as we think it is. It's so easy to forget how deeply she's affected by the taunts and insults thrown at her. 

That's the reason why Thomas'd left. "It's not normal," he insisted when I pleaded with him. "It's not *normal.*" He couldn't handle the pressure, both internally and socially. He's not a strong man, and sometimes I'm thankful that he left us. . . but then I think of my sons. They're active and cheerful too, I always forget the stigma that sticks to them: "He's related to a *mutie,* she's a *freak.*" So far none of them have said anything of the insults they must've received in school, except for the one time Brian returned from his first day of football practice in sober silence. He refused to talk about it, and went straight to his room after dinner. 

I couldn't understand and kept asking him what happened. He shook his head and grunted, I persisted. Then he exploded and told me what'd happened: the whole practice team started picking on him just for being related to a mutie. "How's it feel t' have her shedding skin all over the place?" they'd laughed, shoving him around. "Does she wear a bra, or does she use her extra skin as a substitute?" He finally lost it and tackled everyone to the ground, and ended up pummeling the team captain for being such a jerk. Coach Dalton had to pull him off the guy. 

That was just the gist of the story -- Brian refused to give me details. But I pressed. "Forget it, Mom," he said quietly, "they're just a buncha jerks anyway." 

"Tell me what they said." 

"It's not important, Mom." 

"It's important to me if they're gonna hurt my babies, now *tell* me what they *said.*" 

He hung his head, not wanting to meet my eyes. He mumbled words softly and quickly, and I forced him to look at me and repeat them clearly. I know it hurt him to say them as much as it hurt me to hear them, maybe even worse, but I kept my expression calm and serious as I listened to each and every humiliating insult they'd uttered. When he was done, I just nodded wordlessly and hugged him. Then I went upstairs to my room and cried. 

It wasn't fair. 

Of course, the next football practice Brian returned with shining eyes, saying that Coach Dalton had referred to him as having "lots of potential", judging from what'd happened the last time. Plus after the way he beat the crap out of them, no one ever picked on him again. And he's becoming one of the team's star players now. But something inside me still hurts, because I know the pain won't stop for him, nor will they stop for Judy, Jed, or Rodney. So far Jed and Rodney haven't had any bad experiences as far as I know, but I'm not fooled. I know this can't last for long. One day they will face the harsh face of humanity, and when they do. . . God, I just hope they're strong enough to take it. 

Judy has always been so sensitive towards. . . the situation. She's the eldest and has power over three boys, of course, and she challenges anyone to call her weak just because she's a girl. . . but still. . . she's only human. She feels the hurt inside, and she's not quite as able as the boys to hide it from sight. And when I see her like this, I hurt too. 

Her sobbing recedes and I hug her tighter. My hands rub her arms softly as I kiss her hair, and I know of no words that can make it all better, make the pain go away. And I hate myself for it. 

She sniffles a bit and wipes her nose with a finger, then quickly grabs a tissue. I want to smile but I hurt too much to do so. I pat her head as she lays it on my shoulder, and I whisper again, "I'm so sorry, Judy. I'm so sorry." 

She shakes her head softly. "It's not your fault, Mom. You can't help it." 

"I know, baby, and that's what makes me so mad." 

"It's okay, Mom." She wipes her nose again, this time with the tissue. "They're just a bunch of jerks anyway." 

I turn her head to face me. "Judy, you don't have to force yourself to be brave about it, you know. You can tell me if you hurt. I want to *know* if you hurt." 

She half-laughs, half-sobs before smiling at me and squeezing my hand. "Nah, really, Mom, it's okay. They were just stupid bullies looking for fun anyway. Didn't have anything else to do, so they picked on me." 

"Judy. . ." 

"Seriously, Mom, it's okay. Amanda and Cassie stood up for me, they yelled back at the bullies and traded better insults than those losers. They just about sent them packing. You should've seen them, they were so brave." 

I pinch her cheek. "I think you're brave." 

She grins and wipes her eyes with her hand. "And guess what? Derek also went and stood up for me, he told them that they were just a pack of weasels who couldn't find their as. . . their butts if it was spread out right in their hands. Well, actually he said it much more eloquently than that, but I can't remember how. But he was good." 

I smile. "And this Derek. . . is he someone special to you?" 

She blushes. 

"Will you tell me about him?" 

"Mom!" She gave a look of mock indignation. "I'm sixteen years old. A teenager. I'm not supposed to be so buddy-buddy with my Mom to the point that I tell her about *everything.*" 

"Ah." I nod sagely. "I see. Of course not. I'm the uncool, so-out parent. I keep forgetting." 

She grins and pokes my arm. "A girl needs some privacy, Mom. Just 'cause she's spent all her life talking to you openly doesn't mean she'll keep on doing that forever." 

"That's true." I rise to my feet and look at her, and my heart twists a little to see my daughter, my wonderful little girl. "That is so true." 

She smiles at me, then her eyes trail down and spots the tampon packet on the floor. She jumps to her feet and grabs it. "Oh, you got it! Thanks Mom!" She frowns and glances at the label. "You got. . . this?" 

"It was the only brand I could find," I protest as I head for the door. "Dinner's in an hour, try not to get too distracted by voice practice to forget, okay?" 

She slaps her forehead. "Oh, voice practice!" She quickly dumps herself in front of the electronic keyboard in the corner (we're saving up to buy a real piano next year) and begins singing scales. I stand there for a moment to listen to her beautiful voice. As soon as I feel tears in my eyes, I turn to go. 

"Mom?" 

I turn around. Judy is looking at me, face solemn and wise for someone her age. Sometimes I blame myself, hate myself for her pain and how it has matured her. Sometimes I wonder if my children will ever get to enjoy their childhood, or if they'll have to fend off insults every single day of their lives. 

"Later tonight. . . after dinner and stuff. . . can we, like, talk? Just for a while?" She blushes. "About. . .well, Derek?" 

I smile, my heart bursting with joy for my beautiful little girl. "Of course, darling. We'll talk for as long as you want." 

She gazes at me, still quiet. "You're a great Mom, you know that?" 

I smile. "Sometimes I forget." 

She stands up and comes over to me, and before I even know what's happening she puts her arms around me and hugs me tight. I manage not to get too choked up and quickly embrace her too. 

"I don't care if you're a mutant, Mom," she whispers. "I love you just the same." 

My eyes tear up immediately, and I squeeze her tighter. "I love you too, baby. I'm sorry they called you a freak because of me." 

Her body shakes, but this time it's because of laughter, not tears. She lifts her head and gazes at me, eyes wet and glistening as she gives me a wobbly little smile. "Hey, if I'm a freak just because my Mom is, then I'll gladly be a freak anyday." 

I smile and hug her, no longer able to keep the tears from flowing. It's times like these that make me so happy. 

End 

Maelstrom 

http://www.geocities.com/TelevisionCity/9378 


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